


Just like Debbie Harry

by ElisAttack



Series: My Crack Fics [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asshole Stiles Stilinski, Derek is a Failwolf, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Nobody is Dead, Technologically Impaired Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek should know by now not to trust what he reads on the internet.</p><p>Or the one where Derek bleaches his hair, and does everything that could possibly be done wrong, wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just like Debbie Harry

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be working on my BDSM fic, but this damn idea wouldn't leave me alone...
> 
> Based upon [this](http://theyareonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/123240714448/missjuliexxxx-tyler-is-like-blonds-have-more) image of these two idiot's fantastic Peanuts cosplay

Derek stares in his bathroom mirror, the lighting casts sharp shadow on his skin, making his dark eyebrows seem even bushier than normal.

Stiles is always complaining about how unfriendly he looks, saying Derek has eyebrows prophesising imminent death, or whatever the heck that means.  It hurts his feelings, he doesn't want to come across as rude, but that's just how his face works.  Stiles scared of him just because he looks a certain way and it sucks.

Derek scours the internet, trying to find a quick and easy solution to his problem, and lo and behold the first thing that pops up on Bing is a seven step wikiHow article on how to look more approachable.  It's all a part of his plan to get Stiles to like him.  And maybe if Derek succeeds Stiles will go out on a date with him.  In fact, there's a nice drive in theatre showing Zombie flicks near Redding and he knows Stiles will be interested in going, hopefully with Derek.

He steels his resolve, skimming through the article, already dismissing the first step.  _Smile_ , because he knows he looks like a deranged serial killer if he tries too hard to seem approachable, or at least that's what everyone tells him.  Derek skips over to the third step, because the second one, _open up and be more inviting_ , is just not going to work either.

He tries practicing in the mirror, spreading his arms wide as he practices a potential conversation with Stiles.  "Would you like to go get coffee with me?  I think we have a lot of things in common, I secretly love Batman too, and we both have dead mothers."  Somehow Derek feels that would just get him slapped. 

The third step tells him to make frequent eye contact with people.  They even suggest using makeup to accentuate his features, but Derek doesn't think he needs to go that far.  He figures if he keeps his eyes open wider than normal, that'll work just fine. 

That night, Derek scales up the side of Stiles' house, pushing his window open silently.  The boy is working at his desk, a pencil in mouth, chewing as he types way at his laptop.

Derek glances over at himself in Stiles' mirror making sure his eyes are as wide as physically possible.  Personally, he thinks he looks ridiculous, but the article says it will help, so who's he to argue with the expert who wrote it. 

Stiles has yet to notice him in the dim light coming from the sole lamp on his desk, he's so focused on writing an essay for his college art history class.  The same essay he's been complaining about for days to anyone who will listen.  Namely Derek, because everyone else just groans and walks away, but Derek knows if he nods every few minutes it seems like he actually cares about the Counter Reformation and its attacks on Baroque art. 

Who's he kidding?  He listens attentively whenever Stiles talks, he's just so knowledgeable he makes even history interesting, which is saying something because Derek used to fall asleep in his high school history class.

A pajama clad leg bounces up and down as Stiles glares down at his notes.  It doesn't seem likely he will notice Derek anytime soon, so he sighs and grabs the back of Stiles' chair, spinning him around.

And gets a face full of pepper spray for his trouble.

Derek howls, clawing at his eyes as the spray burns, he falls to his knees and Stiles shouts in the background,  "there's a fucking psychotic leprechaun on the loose, and you think now is a good time to sneak up on me!  What the actual fuck, Derek?!"

He groans lying on the floor as his face heals, thanking every deity he knows of that leprechauns aren't affected by wolfsbane.  Derek shudders to think what wolfsbane right in the face would feel like.  His vision clears as his eyes heal over to Stiles glaring down at him, expressions quickly switching between concern and righteous fury.  "Dude, what the fuck?"  Stiles exclaims, hands gesturing dramatically, but he leans down anyway, offering a hand to pull Derek to his feet.  Derek takes it, blinking a few times and resisting the urge to rub his eyes.

"Can I use your bathroom?"

Stiles just throws his arms up in the air and marches back to his desk.  Derek takes that as consent.

Derek walks back into Stiles' room, face washed of all remaining pepper spray, and finds the boy fast asleep at his desk.  Derek glares at the can of pepper spray in the trash bin beside his desk.  But at least Stiles didn't keep it. 

Grabbing the blanket off Stiles' bed, he tucks it around his sleeping form, followed by the pillow which he places underneath his head.  He turns off the light before climbing out the window.  

***

The seventh step suggests a makeover, specifically saying he should cut away any hair blocking his face, but since Derek already styles his hair up and away from his face, he doesn't find that necessary.  However, he does discover an interesting article by The Onion detailing a census proving that platinum blondes with tattoos are seen as friendly, approachable people, and would be hired over, say, a brunet like him.

Derek stares at the little bottle of peroxide he purchased from the drugstore this morning.  According to the badly lit video he watched last night 60 volume should be enough to transform his hair into a friendly platinum.  He's nervous, doing something he's never even considered before, but the bleach smells faintly of the green Jolly Ranchers Stiles sometimes snacks on, and it steels his resolve.  He mixes the bleach according to the instructions from the girl in the video, not bothering with gloves because strangely enough, he's a werewolf with a latex allergy.  The chemical burns will heal right up anyway.

Grabbing a handful of the apple-y mixture he smooshes it down on the crown of his head, lathering it into his scalp, the bleach burns his skin, but it's nothing like the pain of say, a rebar in the stomach, so he ignores it, making sure he covers every inch of his hair with the mixture. 

There's a bit left over when he finishes, and Derek contemplates doing his eyebrows too, but changes his mind, remembering what the pepper spray felt like.  Derek imagines bleach in the eyes would be very similar.

Derek sets the timer on his phone and settles down on the couch.  He places a towel behind him as he waits, thumbing through a very good book he stole off of Stiles' shelf.  Well, borrowed.  Derek fully intends to give it back eventually, when he finishes reading it and when Stiles' scent fades from the pages.

Only a few minutes later, he rises to open the window when the fumes become too much for his sensitive nose.  His apartment smells like ground zero for a chemical bomb, and it makes him want to sneeze.

The timer dings and Derek moves to the bathroom, unbuttoning his pants as he goes, tossing them into the hamper behind the door.  He turns the shower on and lets the warm, soothing water wash away the bleach, only opening his eyes when he can't smell chemicals anymore.  Rubbing a handful of conditioner through his hair, he tries to manoeuvre a long enough strand of hair into his line of vision, trying to see the colour, but his hair isn't long enough. 

Derek stands in front of the bathroom mirror, towel wrapped around his head, counting down to the big reveal.  Tugging on the towel he lets it drop and his eyes bug out in shock.

He looks... Fucking ridiculous.  His hair is a startling shade of neon yellow, which should go away once he puts some purple toner in, but it stands in very sharp contrast with the black of his eyebrows and tanned skin.  Even more so when he adds his beard into the equation.

Maybe the toner will make it better?

An hour later and the toner does not make it better.  His hair is limp and so dead it demands a funeral and eulogy.  Derek tries running his hands through it, but it's knotted, stringy and crusty, and when he tugs on the strands they feel gummy and disgusting.  Derek knows he fucked up when he puts gel in and the whole thing collapses like the London bridge.  It can't even stand up properly without a whole handful of gel cementing it.

But at least it isn't yellow anymore...

He doesn't know how he's supposed to face Stiles looking like this, but it's not as if he has a choice, the pack is coming over in a few hours for movies and dinner, and he can't exactly cancel.  He doesn't get colds so he can't use that as an excuse, and they defeated the psychotic leprechaun a few days ago so he can't say he spotted it and went out to capture it.  Basically, Derek's fucked.

Digging around in his closet he finds Laura's old Mets baseball hat and tries tucking all his hair in, succeeding somewhat.  He figures with the barely there glow of the television, no one will notice any errant strands.

Erica's the first to walk in, and the moment she spots him standing there, white tank and jeans on, the baseball cap placed backwards on his head her eyes narrow and she bursts into a fit of laughter so violently loud he's surprised she doesn't stop breathing.

"Are you trying to imitate Stiles, or are you choosing to live out the frat boy lifestyle?"  She grips her sides, giggling with mirth.

Derek frowns, brow furrowing, wondering if it's the tank top.  He self consciously tugs at it, maybe it's because it's too tight...?

"The hat!"  She exclaims, pointing.

Oh.  Shit.  "Just trying something new."  He says gruffly shuffling his legs, trying to be as nonchalant as possible and not draw attention to his plight.  Touching the brim of the hat discretely, he makes sure everything is swept up and tucked away.  Erica just rolls her eyes, and marches right past him into the living room.

The rest of the pack arrive one after the other, shooting the hat curious looks, but thankfully no one interrogates him as bluntly as Erica about what it's doing on his head.

Stiles is the last to arrive, stumbling through the door, limbs tangled and everywhere.  "Sorry I'm late."  He tells the room, and his eyes widen when they catch sight of him.  Derek half expects him to laugh like Erica did, but instead he claps him on the shoulder and walks past, grinning as he takes his reserved seat on the comfiest armchair in the room.  "The Mets are awesome, dude!"

Movie night goes as well as usual.  Derek orders seven pizzas and they all get swiped within the first half hour, leaving Stiles yelling something about pacing and human metabolism.  They watch a whole bunch of Japanese horror films which leave Derek scratching his chin, wondering if the pizza place ran out of button mushroom and used a more psychedelic kind, because there's a girl with an alligator mouth instead of legs on the screen.

After the last movie involving way too much green screen and disembodied heads, the pack filters out, yawing, until only Stiles is left. 

He sits on his squishy armchair, drumming long thin fingers on his knee, staring at Derek with his brow furrowed, adorable nose squished like he's confused about something.

Eventually Stiles breaks the silence, clearing his throat.  "What's up with you today?" 

"Nothing."  Derek says quickly.  "What's up with you?"

"Nothing."  Stiles frowns even more.  "You're acting weirder than normal, dude, and that's saying something."

"Everything's fine."  Derek subconsciously touches the hat lightly, and Stiles eyes narrow in on his fingers.

"Since when do you like the Mets?  I always thought you were more of a Yankees fan."  Derek make a disgusted face.  "Or not...?"

"Mets."  He says.

"Cool.  They are an awesome team."  Stiles grins, and Derek sighs, long suffering.

"What are you still doing here, Stiles?"

"Take off the hat."  Stiles declare abruptly, rising from his chair, walking over to Derek's position on the couch.  Derek sinks deeper into the cushions, hoping to disappear, anything, so long as the hat stays firmly in place on his head.

"Stiles..."  Derek warns, clutching at his head as Stiles moves so close Derek can smell the pizza on his breath and practically feel the fast staccato of his heart.

"Derek..."  Stiles says mockingly in the exact same tone Derek said his name.

"Are we just going to go back and forth like this?"  Derek scowls, still holding the hat firmly in place, Stiles is purposely blocking his only exit route.  Derek could easily push him aside, but doesn't want to, he can't risk hurting Stiles.

"So long as you remain a stubborn ass."  Stiles mutters.  "What did you do?  Give yourself a reverse mohawk?  Did a beta stick gum in your hair?  Did you bleach it to within an inch of its life."  Derek freezes and his eyes widen.  Stiles' soft pink lips gape open as he stares at Derek in shock, eyes slowly inching up towards the hat, and Derek can practically hear the cogs in his mind whirring.

"Shit."  Derek says, and Stiles lunges.  Derek shifts to the side but his movements are clumsy, hands busy clamping the hat to his head as he kicks his legs trying to scoot back along the couch away from Stiles' reach, but he's at a disadvantage and Stiles quickly gains the upper hand. 

By the time Stiles reaches him, they're both panting, chests moving up and down, hearts beating, and oh.  Stiles is straddling him. 

When Stiles realizes where he is and who he's sitting on, he appears shocked, like he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now.  He looks like he's torn between climbing off Derek and raising the metaphorical white flag, or trying to struggle even more with Derek now that he's so close to getting the hat off his head.

Instead he does something Derek would have never seen coming, not even in a million years.  He presses his lips to Derek's in a frantic kiss.  He's so startled, he does nothing for a few seconds until Stiles' teeth scrape his lip and he groans, opening his mouth to the clumsy, messy kiss.

Stiles settles down in his lap, sitting right over his dick and Derek feels like whimpering when he moves his hips like it's an involuntary reaction to grind all over Derek's business.  Derek moves his hands, placing them on Stiles when he rolls his hips, making Derek see stars.  One goes on the small of Stiles' back, fingers dipping into the waistband of his jeans, the other he places underneath his jaw, finger against his pulse, cupping it reverently as he slows the kiss down from frantic to leisurely and maddening.

Derek freezes when he notices his head feels slightly colder than before. 

Pulling back from the kiss, he finds Stiles grinning smugly, baseball hat in hand.  Derek stares back wondering how long the hat's been off, and how he hadn't noticed it earlier.  Stiles' gaze travels all over his hair, eyes amber warm as the corners of his mouth twists up in a small smile.  Stiles snorts a small breath, and Derek worries his bottom lip, wondering if Stiles is about to reject him, or something equally horrible, like laugh at him. 

But all Stiles does is place the hat back on his head, not even bothering to tuck the hair back in, before kissing Derek every so sweetly, rubbing his button nose against Derek's. 

Eventually Derek's worries dissipate at Stiles' obvious acceptance and he relents, lying down on the couch, allowing Stiles to sprawl on top of him like an octopus.  And he does, collapsing down on him with a relieves sigh, moving to nuzzle his face into Derek's neck and wrapping his arms around his shoulders, wet lips brushing his ear. 

Derek can feel Stiles lashes flutter against the skin of his cheek, and Derek swallows heavily.  "Tomorrow could you help me fix it?"  Derek asks quietly.

He feels Stiles smile into his neck and he nods, whispering his assent, voice soft and fond.

**Author's Note:**

> And for god's sake don't use 60 vol peroxide, Bing, or believe what you read in The Onion...


End file.
